Feminism Begins at Home and Others
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: <html><head></head>But a lot sooner than Lady Grantham suspects. A oneshot from Sybil's childhood leading on to further oneshots. Sybil/Branson pairing.</html>
1. Chapter 1

**Very random one-shot about Lady Sybil as a child.**

"Hello, Mrs Hughes."

Elsie, working on some papers at her desk, was surprised at the little voice behind her. No one had knocked at the door for one thing, but it was also higher and softer than the tones she was used to. She turned in her chair to find the only person in the house who would have the nerve to creep up on the housekeeper while she was doing her evening paperwork.

"Hello, my dear," she replied, seeing who her visitor was and immediately dismissing the chance of becoming cross, "Shouldn't you be in the nursery now?"

Lady Sybil, the youngest of the house at six years old, shook her head, politely but not without a hint of defiant refusal.

"Mary's been allowed to eat with the grown ups tonight and Edith won't let me play with her," she confessed, looking down at her shoes.

The six-year-old, Elsie thought, would grow up to be very pretty, with big eyes like that.

"So you should be, but you don't want to," Elsie surmised.

Sybil nodded guiltily, still looking at her feet. Giving her a half-exasperated smile, Elsie rolled her eyes and scooped her up so she could sit on the table. A pity about her hair, she thought, such a lovely mop of dark curls; they'll want that to straighten out to make it easier for her lady's maid when the time comes. The girl looked decidedly happier from her new vantage point.

"Do you want some hot chocolate?" she asked, and received the enthusiastic nod and grin she was expecting.

"Your tooth came out," she observed, going over to the fire to sort out the kettle.

"Yes," the child replied, "At lunchtime. It was wobbly for ages. Mary said she'd pull it out for me if I didn't shut up about it."

"Did she now?"

She could well believe it as well, Lord Grantham's other two daughters didn't quite seem blessed with the mellow spirit that the youngest was.

"Yes," Sybil continued, "And she sent Edith to find some string to tie it to the door."

Why on earth Mr Carson took such a shine to the eldest daughter was quite beyond her, thought it was possible that the child was exaggerating a little. But it was quite endearing really.

"There you go."

Elsie presented her with a mug of hot chocolate, which she accepted and drank gratefully.

"Mind you don't burn your mouth," Elsie warned her.

She began to drink more slowly.

"Mrs Hughes?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you know Mr Carson?"

"Yes, I've worked with him for a long time."

Lady Sybil giggled a little at her joke.

"What about him?" Elsie asked.

"Do you like him?"

Heavens, Elsie thought, Miss O'Brien's put her up to this! But the child seemed quite genuine; and it was unlikely that Miss O'Brien had gone quite as far as to round up her employer's children to act as her agents in her meddling.

"Why do you ask?" Elsie enquired curiously, frowning a little.

Lady Sybil took a particularly large gulp of hot chocolate.

"He's scary," she mumbled, "He gets very cross when things aren't clean."

"That's his job," she told her gently, "He's supposed to make sure things are clean."

"I thought that was your job?" the little girl frowned.

"It is," Elsie conceded, "But it's a very big house; it's his job too. And he polishes the silver and waits on your mama and papa when the footman can't. He's a very nice gentleman really."

This only served to confuse the child further. She sat there on the table trying to frown her way through what the housekeeper had just said. Elsie raised her eyebrows a little to let her know that she would answer any questions.

"If he's a gentleman," the child began slowly, "Then why does he have a job at all? I heard Granny say to Mary that gentlemen don't have jobs."

That was a difficult one: how to explain to a six-year-old the difference between someone like her father who was born automatically into "gentility" and Charles Carson who earned the title through good character?

"The same word can mean two different things," she told her, "It can mean someone like your papa, he's a gentleman because he doesn't work, or someone like Mr Carson, who's a gentleman because he behaves well towards other people."

"Doesn't papa behave well to other people?" Sybil, mildly alarmed by the notion, wanted to know.

Elsie smiled a little.

"Yes, he does, but that's not what your grandmother was talking about."

"Why can papa be a gentleman just by not having a job?"

"Because he was born to be one," Elsie replied, without thinking about it at first.

When she did, however, reflect upon it, in its simplest terms, it doesn't sound fair at all. No wonder the child is confused by it. Taking it in, Sybil nodded slowly, taking another drink.

"Why does Mr Carson have a different job from you?"

"How do you mean?"

"Why does he wait on mama and papa when you don't?"

"That's just what the butler does, not the housekeeper." 

"Will you be a butler one day, Mrs Hughes?" Sybil asked, quite seriously.

Elsie tried not to splutter with laughter.

"No dear, only men can be butlers."

Again, Lady Sybil looked at her knees, thinking through what she was being told.

"That's not fair," she concluded, as decidedly as only a child can.

"What's not?"

"That only men can be butlers. Why can't ladies?" the child asked pressingly.

It occurred to Elsie that she never so much as considered the matter.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, "I suppose men are better at handling things like silver polish and wine."

"Are they?" Lady Sybil pressed, "Is Mr Carson better than you at handling wine, Mrs Hughes?"

Elsie was hard pressed not to snort; there were comparatively few people in England better than her, in her youth, better than her at handling drink.

"I imagine we're about equal," Elsie answered, trying to keep her voice as level as possible.

"Then its not fair," Sybil announced, "If you're equally good you should do it one night and him the next."

How do you explain to a child that men and women aren't equal? How do you explain to a beautiful happy child like this that she'll be looked down upon and not taken seriously all her life because of something that she never got a say in?

"Mrs Hughes?" Elsie snapped to attention, "You look sad. Have I upset you?"

The child definitely had Lady Grantham's caring nature in her and for that Elsie gave her the best smile she could muster.

"No, dear, of course you haven't. Now, shall we go and get you some cake from Mrs Patmore before Ellen comes down to take you back to the nursery."

Lady Sybil nodded excitedly and extended her arms to be lifted down from the table.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Ok, so this has turned out not to be a one-shot, but this is kind of another one-shot that sort of links back to the previous chapter. It is reminiscent of "The Reluctant Mother Hen", i.e. there is a hint of Carson/Hughes between the lines. May become a series of one-shots if anyone would like it to. **

She simply had to get away from upstairs. "Bedlam" would be the single word to most accurately sum up the atmosphere, even when many of the party guests had gone home. For one thing, Edith seemed to rank the rapid deterioration of her relationship with Anthony Strallan as more upsetting than the country's descent into war and was nothing short of astonished that no one else shared her view. At least Mary had not resorted to shrieking. Aunt Rosamond and Granny had been nothing short of frantic and her mother had gone to bed early. Mrs Crawley, the only potential source of sensible female company, had- being sensible- made her excuses and gone back to Crawley House as quickly as possible.

And so Sybil did what she had not done for many years: gone downstairs without a definite task in hand. Not downstairs as in the drawing room; downstairs as in the kitchens. It was cooler there, and quieter. Instinct and knowledge of the house told her that most of the staff would be in the servants' hall and would all jump to their feet at her arrival- which she certainly didn't want- so she slipped quickly off the stairs hoping that no one would see her. It was glorious, even if a little lonely, to go unnoticed for once. She enjoyed the quiet slapping sound of her shoes on the stone as she paced back and forth. But then, in the quiet of reflection, she began to realise just what was happening, happening to them all. And it was bleak. The future- once full of nothing but London seasons, and frocks, and drives in the motor for no reason, and posting pamphlets about the suffrage- was now spread with a grey wash: nothing certain ahead that wasn't danger. She did not cry, as other young girls might have- as many doubtlessly were at this very moment- only pursed her lips and continued pacing with a little more strength in her stride.

She did not hear the sound of a door quietly opening. Nor did she notice a pair of eyes watching her, until she turned back, almost jumping out of her skin.

"Dear goodness, Mrs Hughes, I didn't see you there!"

"Are you quite alright, m'Lady?" the housekeeper asked, frowning in concern.

"Yes, yes, perfectly, Mrs Hughes," Sybil tried to assure her, not wanting any fuss to be made.

However, it seemed that the older woman wasn't going to believe her for one moment. Sybil saw her raise her eyebrows, folding her arms across her chest.

"Is it anything that I could help with? Anything you'd like to talk about, m'Lady?" she asked.

Sybil gave a moment's pause.

"I don't wish to be any trouble to you."

Mrs Hughes simply stood back, holding open the door to her sitting room. Rather gratefully, Sybil hurried inside. The room was much smaller than she remembered, though it had been years since she was last in here. The large table was still there however. Smiling a little to herself, Sybil stood perched against it. It was glorious not to have to sit neatly for once.

"Would you like a drink, m'Lady?" the housekeeper asked.

"Yes, please."

She waited quietly for Mrs Hughes to bring her her drink. It was hot chocolate. She smiled again, accepting the mug. The housekeeper took her own drink and perched on the settee, watching the girl fidget a little.

"What is wrong, m'Lady? Apart from the obvious."

Sybil sniffed a smile. It was the obvious that was making everything so wrong at the minute.

"That's just it, Mrs Hughes," she told her, "It's just the... war."

It sounded wrong. The War. She hoped the housekeeper wouldn't find her foolish or think she was demanding some kind of special attention when everyone was really in the same boat.

"But you aren't up there shrieking with your sisters," Mrs Hughes pointed out, taking a drink.

"No," Sybil lowered her eyes to the floor, "But I imagine I will be; once the shock's settled in."

Mrs Hughes laughed rather bitterly at that. They fell into a rather odd silence. It was comfortable but not. It was understanding, but Sybil had the feeling that the housekeeper was probably understanding a lot more than she was letting on. It was the silence of two people who happened to have known each other very well but from a distance for many years.

"There is something," Sybil admitted it to herself at the same speed as she admitted it to her companion, "That is troubling me beyond the rest."

Realising what she had long begun to suspect, she felt an unusually pressing need to get it off her chest. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that the housekeeper was listening.

"I would count it as a great favour, Mrs Hughes, if you didn't mention this to anyone."

The housekeeper raised her eyebrows.

"I'm not Miss O'Brien," she simply pointed out.

Sybil smiled.

"No," she agreed. She took a deep breath. "It is rather troubling me that, that many of the men around the house may have to leave to fight."

"Naturally you'll be worried that your father will have to go."

There was something testy in the older woman's voice that let on that she knew what Sybil was talking about but was going to make her say it.

"Of course," Sybil agreed, "I should hate to see papa have to go. But..." she was going to have to say it now, "I wasn't quite thinking of him, Mrs Hughes."

"Oh?"

"I was thinking," Sybil continued, rather wishing the housekeeper would step in and save her, "That certain members of the staff would have to-..."

"Yes. Mr Branson probably would."

So she did know, Sybil thought. The housekeeper spoke kindly but not without a hint of sternness.

"Is it very obvious?" she asked.

Mrs Hughes gave the matter some thought.

"Only to me, I think," she decided, "And I watched you grow up. Though even if I hadn't..." she trailed off in thought for a moment before continuing, "It is quite clear," she admitted, "That you think highly of Mr Branson and that he thinks highly of you."

"But you can't tell that I..."

"That you love him?" Mrs Hughes asked, "No, I shouldn't think I'd be able to tell that if I didn't know you."

They were silent for a moment.

"My Lady," Mrs Hughes began slowly, "I know I'm not very well in a position to advise you-..." 

"Please do advise me!" Sybil interjected, "Lord knows, I need it!"

Mrs Hughes nodded gravely.

"Very well. You're very young, my Lady, and, if you do as you say love Mr Branson, I realise there's very little I can do to make you listen to anything like common sense. But be careful, for heaven's sake, if not for yourself for him. He has his job to lose and you... I don't think I have to tell you what your grandmother or your father might say."

Lady Sybil nodded gravely.

"But you understand?" she pressed, "Mrs Hughes, you must understand. Otherwise you'd have told me straight away just to give him up."

The older woman was quiet for a moment and Sybil thought for a second she might have gone too far. But, then:

"Yes, my Lady. I know what it's like to be young and in love. And not so young and in love. I understand."

Sybil, though Mrs Hughes was looking rather melancholy, smiled as best she could, putting her empty mug down on the table beside her.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

"You are most welcome, my Lady."

And then they were employer and servant again.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for your reviews so far, I'm glad you like it. **

**This is turning out to be non-chronological: here we have the return of six-year-old Sybil as you all seemed to like her. **

"Is Lady Mary really going to be married, Mrs Hughes?"

It was certainly the first Elsie had heard of it: Lady Mary was all of eleven years old. Judging by the look on her face, however, Sybil was quite serious- well, as serious as she could be with a piece of sponge cake in front of her.

"Has she been telling you she is?" Elsie asked, a theory as to what was going on developing in her mind.

Sybil nodded earnestly.

"Yes," she informed her, "She says the Earl of Somerset's son is in love with her and is going to marry her as soon as he's of age. Edith was very jealous; he's got very curly blonde hair and blue eyes and she says she's always wanted to marry someone like that. I don't think she cares what he's like just so long as he looks like that."

Elsie was tempted to snort; there was more truth in that than the child could possibly realise. She looked fondly down at the girl, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the table.

"I think someone might be telling you tales," she told her kindly, "I don't know if Lady Mary's ever met the Earl of Somerset's son and if she has I don't think it can have been for long enough for him to fall in love with her."

Sybil took this in and seemed, at large, to be pleased by it.

"If she says it again, I'll tell her to stop it or I'll tell Mama," Sybil decided, "Mama hates it when one of us lies," but then, she frowned a little, apparently remembering something, "If it's not true, why did Mary say it when Granny was there?"

"Your grandmother was there?" Elsie asked, surprised.

Sybil nodded.

"Yes, and she told Mary she admired her attitude, but," Sybil concentrated, remembering the finer details, "Would she mind being quiet during tea?"

"Your grandmother let her tell you and Lady Edith that she was going to get married?" Elsie asked, a little incredulous, but really, she wouldn't quite but anything entirely past Lady Violet.

Sybil shook her head.

"She said we'd all have to find husband's like that one day and at least Mary was starting early. She seemed to find it all quite funny, really. I thought Edith was going to be sick."

Elsie shook her head in moderate disbelief. The worst thing was, she was entirely convinced that the child was telling the truth. A little lost in thought, she was a little surprised by Sybil's next question.

"Did you have to get married, Mrs Hughes?"

"No," Elsie replied, "No, I never did get married."

"Why do we call you Mrs, then?" Sybil asked, frowning, "I thought you only got called Mrs if you were married?"

It was a point Elsie had always wondered about.

"Generally, housekeepers all get called Mrs," she informed her, "I personally do it to frighten Miss O'Brien, though."

Lady Sybil giggled; she had taken a disliking to her mother's lady's maid almost as soon as she'd met her.

"Eat your cake up," Elsie told her, "They'll be wanting you back in the nursery soon."

Sybil did as she was told but didn't desist in her questioning.

"Why didn't you get married?" she ask, "Didn't you want to?"

Elsie paused for a moment, resting her hands on the table, trying to condense the reasons into something as simple and as unambiguous as possible. With difficulty.

"I wouldn't have minded it so much," she concluded, "I just don't think I ever found the right man."

"How do you know if he's the right man?" Sybil wanted to know, "I've never heard Granny, or Mama, say anything at all about that."

Of course, Elsie thought, she won't get much of a choice in the matter. Poor thing.

"Well," she began, aware that any vague implantation of romance into the child's head could lead to a scolding from her employer. Or at least her employer's mother-in-law; "It all comes down to if he's nice to you, really."

Sybil frowned.

"Lots of people are nice to me," she concluded, "How will I know which one I'm supposed to marry?"

"I'm sure your Granny will tell you which," Elsie told her, diplomatically.

The child nodded as if satisfied and returned to her dish of cake for a moment. Elsie thought her curiosity on the subject of matrimony had been momentarily satisfied, but she was wrong.

"I'm never going to get married, Mrs Hughes," she declared, quite calmly.

Although one part of her head was shrieking that the Dowager Countess would see her out of her job for this, Elsie kept a level tone.

"Why ever not?" she asked.

"I don't think I would like it?" Sybil decided wrinkling her nose, "What if Granny chose the wrong person?" 

Oh Lord, Elsie thought, I might as well start packing now!

"I'm sure she won't," Elsie tried to reassure her, "There'll be so many young man wanting to marry you, there'll be plenty of nice ones to choose from."

Sybil giggled at that, her curly head bobbing up and down happily.

"Really?" she asked, "Didn't you have plenty to choose from, Mrs Hughes?"

It was odd that the same remark, if asked by Miss O'Brien, would have made Elsie want to hit the wretched woman. Instead, when Lady Sybil asked it, she felt only a moderate pang of sadness.

"There was one or two," she admitted carefully.

"Didn't you like any of them?" Sybil wanted to know.

"Yes, I did," Elsie replied, "They were very nice men. But the man who I would have said yes to never asked."

It was odd to admit aloud to a child what she hadn't even really admitted to herself. Also strange was the way Lady Sybil didn't question it, somehow she instinctively knew not to.

"Have you finished your cake?" Elsie asked after a moment.

Sybil nodded,

"Let's get you back to the nursery, then," Elsie told her, "You can come and see me next week if Ellen will let you."

Carefully, she lifted the girl down off the table and took her by the hand to lead her back to her sisters and nursemaid.

**Please review if you have time! **


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm glad you all seem to be enjoying this. This one is in the Autumn after the end of Series 1.**

Making her rounds of the upstairs floors on a dismally overcast afternoon, Elsie was drawn by the sound of a voice resonating in a particularly quiet wing of the house. Although it sounded like a likely tale, she had not been eavesdropping; it just so happened that the tones that reached her ears happened to be particularly distinctive- Irish- and rather more carrying than they ought to be. What on earth was Mr Branson doing in this part of the house?- she wondered. She stopped on the landing, listening attentively. The door ahead of her, leading to one of the smaller sitting rooms, was slightly ajar- the sound issuing from it with ease.

"Mr Branson... Tom..."

There was no mistaking that voice either; it was Lady Sybil. Although she couldn't honestly say she'd been expecting anyone else, Elsie groaned a little inside. The voices were talking again but she wasn't paying attention to what they were saying, she could fairly guess. Foolish girl, she thought to herself, she knows what she's getting into- I've told her what she's getting into!- but will she stop! She had half a mind to go in there with another fictional summons from her Ladyship but something stopped her. She couldn't; it was sentimental, and foolish, of her but she couldn't quite bring herself to go and spoil for Sybil what she had often wished for herself. It wouldn't be fair.

Coming out of her thoughts a moment, across the gap she could see in the door, she caught a glimpse of two people moving close together. The talking had ceased altogether. Well, she was damned if she was going to go barging in now. As quietly as she could, she edged forwards and closed the door so that they could at least have some modicum of privacy, only hoping things wouldn't...

She almost fainted when she saw her Ladyship turning around the corner at the other end of the corridor. It had been a habit of hers for years now to find herself in awkward situations of other people's making. Her Ladyship couldn't have failed to have seen her: her last hope at a lucky escape sailed out of the window.

"Ah, Mrs Hughes..."

"Good day, your Ladyship," Elsie greeted her Lady Grantham loudly, "What brings you to this wing of the house?"

"I was wondering if you'd seen Lady Sybil?" her Ladyship enquired, "I can't seem to find her anywhere near her room and you know what she's like."

I think I'm rapidly learning, Elsie mused inwardly, but what did I expect? She always could be a little devil when she wanted to.

"Lady Sybil?" Elsie repeated, again loudly hoping they would get the message on the other side of the door, "I couldn't say I'd seen her for more than a few seconds since breakfast time."

Impressively, it wasn't even a lie either. Her Ladyship sighed.

"Well if you do happen to come across her, first ask her where on earth she's been and then send her down to me. I'll be in the drawing room for most of the afternoon."

With a smile to her housekeeper, her Ladyship made her way back down the corridor and towards the stairs. Elsie waited a few seconds after she had disappeared from view before turning towards the door and knocking clearly.

Mercifully, she saw that the young pair had untangled themselves. Lady Sybil was sitting on a couch watching the floor, while Mr Branson stood a little way back beside a bookcase. Both looked as if they had spent the last few moments in a very tense state of silence. She realised that her hands were on her hips; she felt a distinct need to be imperious at that moment. It was then she realised that Mr Branson looked about ready to kiss _her_, though hopefully only in thanks for saving him from getting into a potentially sticky situation with the mistress of the house. Drawing herself up to her full height, she raised a stern eyebrow at the young man. He understood himself to be dismissed and left swiftly, glancing fleetingly back at Lady Sybil and nodding to the housekeeper before he went.

Left alone in the room, the two women were quiet for a moment; Lady Sybil resting her head on her hands, still looking at the floor. Elsie didn't quite know what the girl was thinking or how she would react to her speaking; although she had just averted a catastrophic incident with Lady Grantham, she had also practically sent Mr Branson packing. She let out a sigh, before crossing tentatively to the couch and taking a seat beside Sybil- not without caution. She felt herself sitting up very straight, but couldn't quite help it.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes," Lady Sybil spoke at last, "It was very good of you to put off mama like that, I can't think what she'd have said if she'd found..." she looked up from the floor, her complexion rather paler than usual, glancing towards the housekeeper and evidently catching a glimpse of her expression, as she added with a half bitter laugh "What must you think of me?"

Elsie took time to consider her response.

"I think that didn't look very much like giving him up," she answered levelly.

"I didn't say I would," Sybil responded firmly, "Until very recently I could never have made so bold a promise; I hardly knew what I wanted myself."

Elsie was quiet for a moment. She wasn't used- when dealing with other people's problems- to having to decide between her heart and her head. Rationally, she knew that Sybil should give all hope of Mr Branson up and forget about him as quickly as possible, but some instinct in her knew that that would and should never happen. She had never had reason to think of herself as a real romantic before and was half tempted to laugh at herself, before she remembered the situation in hand.

"You do love him, don't you?" she stated quietly, "You thought you might before but you know now."

Lady Sybil was still for a moment then seemed to realise there was no point denying in and nodded.

"What will you do?" she asked, rather than dictating a course of action to her.

It frightened her to see Lady Sybil look as lost as the question seemed to make her and she saw more than a glimpse of the child who'd told her about her nasty older sisters in her face. The girl looked down at her shoes again.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she admitted, then, "What would you do in my position, Mrs Hughes?"

Elsie half-laughed.

"I have never in my life been in anything like your position," she reminded her, "I was a farmer's daughter; who I married or didn't was of no consequence as long as I had a roof over my head."

Sybil shook her head slightly.

"I mean, you've been in love, haven't you?" she corrected, "You told me not long ago on the night of the garden party. And years ago, you said the only man you loved had been the one to never ask you." 

Elsie's mouth fell open a little that Lady Sybil's memory extended that far back to a conversation she'd had with a servant. The girl was looking at her quite seriously and she realised she wasn't going to get away from answering.

"Well," she began slowly, "I suppose you could say..." she trailed off. This was unlikely to be what Lady Sybil wanted to hear.

"Go on, Mrs Hughes," Sybil encouraged her, "Please tell me honestly, whatever you say."

"I suppose you could say I gave him up," she told her, trying to do it as gently as possible. The girl was looking at her, wanting further explanation, "I never told him how I felt, purely because I thought it would only upset our friendship if he wasn't interested."

Sybil was silent for a few moments, taking it in.

"Do you regret it?" she asked finally.

That Elsie could not answer. And Sybil seemed to understand why not. They sat there beside each other, not speaking, for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

"If I were to give him up," Sybil broke the silence, "And that's not to say I'm going to, if I were to give him up, could I... could I talk to you about him? Only occasionally. But if I didn't, I feel I should die."

Elsie gave her a sad smile.

"Of course you might," she replied.

Both were aware of what she was going to say next before she did, but were still somehow surprised by it.

"I wouldn't blame you if you didn't though," Elsie confessed, "If you didn't give him up at all, that is. As much as I'd like to, and your mother would certainly give me the sack for saying this; I can't."

She turned to see Lady Sybil biting her lip and almost beaming. She was trying hard to hide it, but she was.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

"Go on, get downstairs quickly or your mother will have my guts for garters anyway."

**Next chapter should hopefully be a bit happier and will probably have little Sybil in again, if you would like. Please review if you have the time!**


	5. Chapter 5

**More Little Sybil this time. The Little Sybil oneshots seem to be turning out in chronological order, as do the older Sybil ones so I may assume a pattern of alternating between the older and younger chapter for chapter.**

Elsie was sitting in her pantry at a loss for something to do, unusual for an afternoon, when a rather urgent knock at the door came.

"Come in," she called quite brusquely, having been jerked sharply out of her thoughts.

The door clicked and she heard her visitor enter, turning around on the settee to see who it was.

"Your Ladyship," she almost exclaimed jumping to her feet, startled to find Lady Grantham in her sitting room and rather regretting calling her admittance in such a vague and informal way.

Her Ladyship, however, seemed unconcerned, by this at least. She was standing hesitantly, as if awkward.

"I hope there's no trouble, my Lady?" Elsie enquired, determined to make up for her unwitting rudeness.

Lady Grantham was wringing her hands quite alarmingly, barely concealing her anxiety.

"I'm afraid there is, Mrs Hughes," she told her, almost apologetically, "It's Lady Sybil."

"Lady Sybil?" Elsie repeated, her own concern rising. In spite herself, she couldn't help but acknowledge that it rose rather more than it would have had her Ladyship stated that it was either of her other two daughters.

"Yes," Lady Grantham clarified, "She's crying." 

"She's crying?"

The repetition might have come across as somewhat inane, but Elsie scarcely noticed. Lady Sybil _never_ cried. Ever. Her Ladyship seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"Quite hysterically," she informed her uneasily, "I've tired to calm her down, Ellen's tried, but there's nothing to be done. I even had O'Brien try, but that only seemed to make her worse."

I can well imagine, thought Elsie wryly. There was a moment's pause, Elsie wondered why her Ladyship had troubled to come downstairs to make this report. Lady Grantham frowned a little.

"She's asking for you, Mrs Hughes," she informed her, "I wouldn't usually trouble you; but it seems to be the only thing that will settle her down. I would be so grateful if you would come and see her."

Though a little taken aback by the whole notion, Elsie nodded swiftly, walking around the settee to follow her Ladyship out of the sitting room and towards the stairs.

"What's wrong with her?" she asked as they climbed, "What started it all?"

Unless she was very much mistaken, her Ladyship's frown turned to convey a little disapproval.

"You'll see for yourself," was the response she received.

…**...**

She did see for herself, and it almost broke her heart. In the nursery, deserted by everyone except a rather helpless Ellen, was a pitiful sight. Lady Sybil was all but cowering in a corner, nearly bawling her head of, a great chunk of her beautiful curly hair missing. Exchanging a partly horrified glance with her Ladyship at the sight, she received a rather exasperated one in reply. Very cautiously, she approached where Lady Sybil was huddled, trying not to upset her any further. Feeling rather too imperious, towering over the little girl, she crouched down at first, then decided it would be kinder on her legs if she just knelt down. She reached a tentative hand out to where Lady Sybil's hands were pressed over her watery face.

"What's the matter, my Lady?" she asked gently.

Upon noticing that the housekeeper was there, Lady Sybil's sobs took a momentary pause and she looked up from her hands. However, it seemed that something in Elsie's expression started her off again- she couldn't think what, she'd only been trying to look kind- and she sobbed all the louder and more openly, almost hiccuping with the emotion. Her hands away from her face, Elsie could see the real tears flooding down her cheeks, dismissing her last desperate hope that this could all be some ploy.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Sybil," her Ladyship sounded more upset than cross, but Elsie could tell that she was frustrated by the whole situation.

However, it was likely that Sybil didn't hear her mother's reproaches. Unable to stand the sight of such distress in the girl, Elsie had simply reached out from where she knelt and hugged the child to her. The effect was immediate; the loud wailing ceased at once and, gradually, Sybil calmed as Elsie held her there, rocking her back and forth a little. It should be awkward to hold and comfort a child in front of their mother, but Elsie closed her own eyes, gently shushing the child's sobs, and tried not to dwell on it. Finally, Sybil seemed to have been subdued and Elsie let her go. Her face was stained with tears, but Lady Sybil stood up, wiping them away rather clumsily. She looked awkwardly lopsided with a good quarter of her hair missing. Elsie looked uneasily towards Lady Grantham, who was standing near by. Her Ladyship seemed to realise what she wanted to know.

"She can tell you herself," her Ladyship told her, "Would you mind staying with her a while? I should fetch O'Brien, we'll need to get it straightened out; she can't go around looking like that."

Elsie didn't need to look at the child to know that panic had flashed across her face at the prospect of the lady's maid being asked to sort her out.

"Don't trouble Miss O'Brien, your Ladyship," she told her hastily, "She is busier than I am. I can sort out Lady Sybil."

"Are you sure?" Lady Grantham asked, "It's not too much trouble?"

"We shall be fine," Elsie assured her, " If you don't mind me saying, your Ladyship, you would be well-served to go and sit down. You too, Ellen," she added to the nurse maid sitting on the bed.

As the other two filed out, Elsie went into the nursery bathroom to find a towel. Spreading it on the bed, she lifted a rather shaky Lady Sybil to sit in the middle of it and went to collect the scissors from the dressing table that the two youngest daughters shared. She saw the child's lip wobble a little.

"What's happened?"she asked her as kindly as possible, sitting down beside her on the bed.

Lady Sybil took a moment to answer.

"Edith," she whispered finally.

"Edith cut your hair off?" Elsie asked, astonished, taking the piece of hair next to the short patch and matching it in length.

Lady Sybil shook her head rather perilously.

"Keep still!" Elsie warned her with a weak smiled, "I presume it didn't all just drop out."

"Does that happen?" Sybil asked, horrified.

Elsie's smile grew a little.

"Only when you're my age," she told her kindly.

Recovering slowly from the disturbing discovery, Sybil resumed her story.

"She was being nasty to me," Lady Sybil told her, not a hint of telling tales about it, she sounded embarrassed if anything, "She kept pulling my hair. She said it was horrible, like a rat's nest. I told her to shut up but she wouldn't. So I went into our bedroom and got the scissors, but Ellen was in the bathroom and she found me and asked what I was doing and tried to pull the scissors of me and then I started crying."

Elsie, mildly appalled at what Lady Edith thought she could get away with snipped away silently for a few moments.

"Did you tell your Mama this?" she asked.

"No," Lady Sybil admitted, "I thought she'd think I was making up because I was in trouble."

Her head bowed slightly, and Elsie had to put a gentle hand on her forehead to straighten her up so the haircut didn't go badly lopsided.

"Would you like me to tell her what happened?" Elsie asked.

Sybil thought for a moment.

"I don't think she's cross with me for that," she told her, "She's cross because I cried. Mama says real ladies keep their feelings to themselves."

The child was remarkably astute, thought Elsie. How right she was was sad. Clipping at the other side of her hair and moving to see if it was equal at both sides, Elsie looked the girl in the eye.

"And she's mostly right," she told her," But we can't be real ladies all of the time. We're allowed a break: if we weren't supposed to feel things, we wouldn't feel them at all. Don't ever feel like it isn't alright to be upset because that tends to just make things worse. Do you understand?"

Sybil nodded slowly. Elsie brushed the right side of her hair, which was refusing to stay in place.

"And don't worry about what Lady Edith says," she added, "I think she probably just wishes she had hair like yours," that brought a definite smile to the girl's face, "There you go," she told her, "That she see you set. Good enough for Miss O'Brien to not have to interfere, anyway."

Sybil's hair, having been cut off so short by her, was now uniformly cut to jaw length. Although highly unconventional, Elsie didn't think it looked at all bad. She only hoped it would be able to grow back the way it had been. She stood back and Lady Sybil jumped down from the bed, her hair flapping a little and causing her to laugh.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

"It was my pleasure, my dear," she told her, but added in a mocking serious tone, "But don't go pulling any more stunts like that."

Lady Sybil grinned a little and Elsie was hard-pressed not to smile, She bent down, scooping up the towel and the hair snippings to take down to the kitchens. Suddenly, she felt a little pair of arms round her waist as Lady Sybil hugged her tightly. Not knowing what else she could do, holding the towel to the side, her wrapped one arm around the girl in consolation.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry I've taken an age to update and I've also deviated from the structure I'd decided on: this one takes place during Series 1, the night that Sybil has her new frock on.**

Why on earth Charles Carson was standing with his face pressed up against the dining room doors was quite a mystery to her. He had often told her that being a great butler as opposed to merely a good one involved a certain something special, though she was doubtful as to whether this was the defining touch.

"Mr Carson?" she hissed, keeping her voice low so that she would not be heard by the family on the other side of the door, "What in heaven's name are you doing?"

He jumped back a little, obviously not expecting anyone to come across him in his current situation. She was able to observe a crack between the double doors that he had obviously just been staring through. There was a guilty look about him.

"Not eavesdropping, I hope?" she enquired, raising her eyebrows.

Such was his state of distraction that he did not notice she was teasing him.

"No, of course not!" he whispered defensively.

"Then what are you up to?" she repeated.

Something about him was highly nervous, she realised, as he shuffled from foot to foot before her. She began to suspect something much more sinister than eavesdropping.

"Just spit it out," she told him brusquely, "Give me the worst."

He glanced fleetingly back towards the gap in the door, discomfort evident in his face. She was really starting to worry now; when Charles Carson's composure slipped all hell was usually about to break loose.

"William forgot to take the silver tureen away," he told her in a low voice, "It's just sitting there in the middle of the table!"

She waited, but no further report came.

"And I presume either it or its contents is impregnated with arsenic?" she asked, unable to stop the joking tone in her voice.

"It's not funny!" he hissed, "Think how untidy it looks! And as if things weren't going badly enough tonight already!"

"Why? What else has happened?".

"Just Lady Sybil," he told her irritably, shaking his head, "And everyone's in a foul mood because of it."

"Why, what's she done?" she questioned. For all he had said it dismissively, she could not deny that- even all these years since the child had last appeared in her sitting room- she was still rather protective of her and was distressed by the thought of her getting herself into trouble.

Charles glanced back towards the doors, as if checking that none of Lord Grantham's family stood with their ears pressed up against the door, listening to them.

"She's wearing trousers," he told her under his breath.

In fact, so quietly that she could have sworn she misheard.

"She's what?" she asked.

"Wearing trousers," he repeated.

She had not. Nudging him gently out of the way of the gap in the door, she pressed her own eye to it. Unfortunately, Lady Sybil sat on the far side of the table. From the restricted view she got, Elsie could still see the Dowager Countess glowering heavily. She triumphant swallowed back the laugh that threatened.

"What are you going to do about your tureen, if it bothers you so much?" she asked, turning back to him, "I presume you didn't think you could get it back just by staring at it hard enough?"

He shuffled awkwardly again.

"I dare not go in there," he told her, "Not in the middle of a course."

No doubt he was thinking of the pronounced glower on Lay Violet's face. Exasperated, she put her hands to her hips.

"Well if you won't, I will," she told him decidedly.

"You will not!" he told her, appalled, "The _housekeeper_ in the dining room? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

She bit back the reflex response to ask if he had lost his. For a disagreement being staged so quietly, it was remarkably vehement.

"You'd allow a housemaid into the dining room," she pointed out levelly.

"Only in an emergency."

"For heaven's sakes, Charles!" she told him, her frustration apparent now, "What is this fixation with not allowing female staff into a dining room? I hardly know where propriety ends and misogyny begins," Confrontation always brought the long words out of her, "I'm surprised you allow Lady Grantham to eat in there sometimes! But I'll tell you one thing: if you're so worried about that blasted tureen and you don't have the guts to go and get yourself, by heaven, I will!"

And with that she drew herself up to her full height, inhaled deeply and strode straight into the dining room.

"Your generation have some very wild ideas," Lady Violet was saying in Sybil's direction, " I find that young people in general are nurturing bad manners and a disregard for propriety that is most unsettling."

The family looked round at the sound of the door opening. The reaction to her presence in the room did not go unnoticed. Lady Violet faltered, her theories about the young taking a hit as the middle aged housekeeper strode as calmly over the bounds of stately home propriety as she did over the floor boards. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs Crawley smiling at her empty plate. Lady Sybil grinned openly. Elsie turned to Lady Grantham.

"I beg your pardon, my Lady," she nodded towards the tureen in the centre of the table.

"No matter, Mrs Hughes," her Ladyship replied, standing up, a look of amusement not altogether absent from her features, "We were just about to go through."

Elsie nodded graciously and lent between Mr Crawley and Lady Violet- from whom waves of disapproval were radiating-, scooping the impressive dish up in her arms. Either side of her the room was a flurry of movement for a few seconds; his Lordship and Mr Crawley departing for the library to drink their port and the ladies filing behind her Ladyship towards the drawing room. Elsie stood still to avoid collisions. Lady Sybil, she noticed had declined William's offer to replace her chair for her and was doing it herself. Her outfit pooled gracefully around her as she bent her knees a little. It suited her, Elsie decided.

"Lady Sybil," she called, almost in spite of herself as the girl headed for the door to follow her sisters.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes?"

Though Elsie could tell the girl was a little surprised, she responded politely. Elsie glanced her again.

"Nice trousers," she told her.

Sybil blinked for a moment, not quite able to believe what she'd heard. Then the grin returned to her face with a vengeance.

"That's what Mrs Crawley said," she replied happily.

"She's right," Elsie told her, "The woman has more sense than she's often credited with."

Sybil considered it for a moment, then nodded emphatically.

"Yes, yes, I suppose she does," she agreed.

Elsie smiled at her.

"You'd better get going," she nodded towards the door the other ladies had vanished through.

Sybil nodded and turned to go. She did not thank the housekeeper, only grinned at her again. For a moment Elsie stood there, hugging the wretched tureen to her. Lady Sybil was suddenly looking very grown up in that blue frock; it was strange. She had been correct in her prediction that she would turn out very pretty, though she had a suspicion that part of the prettiness was a glint in the eye induced by a rebellious spirit being satisfied. She sighed a little nostalgically, turning back towards the door.

And she marched triumphantly back towards Charles, who was standing staring agog at her.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Post Series 1.**

Lady Sybil cracked a small smile when she saw the housekeeper in the reflection of her dressing table. That was an improvement, Elsie thought, a little wryly; it had been a good while since she'd seen the girl smile properly. If she wasn't careful she'd get frown lines, then they'd be quite the matching pair; only Sybil was a good thirty years younger than Elsie was.

"Hello, Mrs Hughes," she turned to look over her shoulder, "What are you doing up here? I'd have thought you were rushed off your feet today of all days?"

Elsie nodded briefly in fervent confirmation of the latter.

"We're a bit thin on the ground in terms of ladies' maids today, my Lady. I understand it's all hands on deck in Lady Edith's room and Anna can't be spared. You'll have to make do with me."

"Ah yes," Sybil nodded knowingly, "I can imagine. Of course, she must look her best on her special day. After all the trouble she went through to get him to marry her in the first place."

Despite the harsh implications of the remark, the two women exchanged a silent smirk at the truth it held; Lady Edith's relentless pursuit of Anthony Strallan was hardly a secret.

"Yes," Elsie agreed, "And your mother would never quite forgive me if you didn't look your best too, so come on."

"Of course," Sybil got up, but still wasn't looking altogether serious, "_Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well dressed till we drop!_"

Elsie shook her head at the girl's frivolous tone and waited for her to stand still. Recognising that she would have to hurry up, she did and Elsie went to the wardrobe to collect the dress she would be wearing.

"Is that something your grandmother says?" she asked, trying not to sound as flippant as she would have liked to be.

"Heavens, no!" Sybil told her, "It's Edith Wharton and don't let her know you thought that for all our sakes! Granny doesn't quite approve of my liking American literature. It makes her feel as if Mama's influence over me is stronger than hers."

Elsie smiled at the wardrobe.

"I always forget you were Mama's lady's maid for a while before you were housekeeper," Sybil carried on.

"You were far too young to remember it," Elsie replied, unzipping the garment, "And I wasn't in the job for very long. It can't have been more than half a year."

"Why was that?" Sybil asked.

"Because the housekeeper retired soon after I was promoted and then your mother asked if I wouldn't like to be promoted again. I was by far better suited to working around the house rather than waiting on someone. Mr Carson and I used to joke that Mrs Foster only retired so I would have to take over from her, I was such a terrible lady's maid."

Sybil laughed at that last.

"Hold still," Elsie told her, trying to fasten the infernal hooks on the dress.

"You get on very well with Mr Carson, don't you?" she asked lightly.

Elsie could not quite work out if that question was more than it seemed and so did not answer at first. However, Sybil turned her head, obviously expecting a reply.

"I suppose we do," she conceded, "If we didn't we'd have probably killed each other by now."

Sybil sat back down at her dressing table and Elsie took up the hairbrush. Determined to steer the conversation in a safer direction, she began levelly:

"I imagine Lady Edith's quite beside herself with excitement."

"Yes," Sybil's tone let her know that the rapid change of topic had not gone altogether unnoticed, "She is rather. And Mama is too; it's such a relief to her to finally get a daughter married off. Though I think she's lining Sir Anthony's cousin's son up for me." 

The latter statement was not uttered without an air of bitterness. Elsie was hard-pressed not to rest a hand on the girl's shoulder in consolation.

"She doesn't know, does she?"

"About Tom? Good heavens, no!" Sybil laughed a little, "It would probably kill her if she did."

There really was no way for this girl to win, Elsie thought sadly, whether they were talking about wearing trousers or marrying chauffeurs whichever way she turns there will always be a great figure in a hat marked propriety to block her way.

"And he still hasn't decided?" Elsie asked.

Mr Branson had long been torn between patriotic duty and opposition to the purpose of the war and was still debating as to whether to sign up or not. Though, she thought shrewdly, looking down at the pretty girl before her, there was probably more than moral principal contributing to his wish to stay.

"No," Sybil replied, her frown returning.

Hoping to steer the topic back to a happier climate, Elsie sought an optimistic thought.

"I should have thought that your mother would be more anxious to see Lady Mary settled than she is you," she told her.

"I am too," Sybil agreed, "I'm only waiting for Cousin Matthew to realise he made a mistake last Summer and take her back."

"That's just what Mr Carson said," Elsie remarked, placing the final comb in her hair, "What?"

She caught the expression on Sybil's face in the mirror of the dressing table. Her eyebrows were raised in mild amusement.

"That's the second time you've mentioned him," she pointed out casually.

Thankfully, Elsie was saved the effort of deflecting the topic again by a knock at the door. Mrs Crawley's features appeared around the woodwork.

"Cousin Isobel," Sybil rose elegantly to greet her, "Did Mama send you to fetch me?"

"She did. We're nearly ready."

"No disasters?" Elsie asked, quite forgetting that she should have probably left the conversation by now.

Mrs Crawley, however, appeared not to mind.

"Not yet," she replied with a smile.

"Good grief!" Sybil took the words right from her mouth, "Are Mary and Edith still speaking to each other?"

Isobel Crawley smiled a little more widely.

"Just about," she surmised, "Though they'll speak to neither of us if we don't get a move on. Excuse us, Mrs Hughes."

"I shall probably see you you at the wedding breakfast, Mrs Hughes?" Sybil asked as she took her shawl from the housekeeper.

Elsie inclined her head.

"I shall be there, my Lady," she confirmed, "To ensure everyone is behaving."

It was quite clear to both of them that she was not solely referring to the staff in this respect, especially as they both knew it would be Mr Branson who drove the bride's family from the church back to Downton. Sybil blushed a little but smiled. Mrs Crawley had already headed for the door.

"I could probably say the same to you," Sybil replied in a lowered voice and then followed her Cousin with an audacious spring in her step.

Elsie was left to wonder at the girl's nerve.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you for the lovely reviews so far. I don't think I can deny that this is rapidly becoming a bit of a Carson/Hughes ship as well- apparently it's all my mind is capable of- but so long as there are no strenuous objections, I'll just go with it. **

"I knew those shoes would hammer your feet," Elsie told the girl fiddling with the strap of the party shoes her grandmother had condescended to purchase for her for the occasion. There was a definite air of I-told-you-so in her voice.

Sybil looked up in mild irritation.

"Then why didn't you tell me so this morning?" she asked testily, still bent double.

"Do you really think you'd have listened to a dried-up, _sensible _spinster like me about something like that?" Elsie replied with a knowing roll of her eyes.

Straightening up, Sybil seemed to consider the matter.

"I don't suppose so," she conceded.

They both turned from where they now stood side by side to survey the room at large. The dancing was well under way by now, the bride and groom taking centre stage rather clumsily but in high spirits. Nearby Lord Grantham was dancing exuberantly with a blushing Mrs Crawley, a genial expression on his face. Lady Grantham was watching them with amusement, but Lady Violet beside her radiated waves of disapproval.

"Someone's been on the champagne," Elsie remarked lightly.

Following her gaze, Sybil caught sight of the scene her relatives made and giggled.

"I'd swear you had been too, if I didn't know about your sarcastic sense of humour," she told the housekeeper between giggles, obviously referring to the very tongue-in-cheek attitude Elsie seemed to have adopted that day.

"That's a butler's perk, not a housekeeper's," she responded judiciously, choosing to ignore the reference to her recent audacity.

Sybil looked alarmed.

"What, you mean Mr Carson...?" she glanced towards the corner of the room where Mr Carson stood, evidently scanning him for signs of tipsiness.

Elsie cast a rueful eye in his direction too.

"Oh no, he's far too dignified for all of that," she assured her.

A second later she noticed Sybil's eyebrows raised towards her in a pointed, though at the same time incredulous, expression.

"What?" she asked unable to stop herself smiling a little at the girl's face, "I'm only saying what you want to hear."

Sybil laughed heartily in confirmation of the housekeeper's suspicions.

"I think it's very sweet of you both," she assured the older woman, "Honestly," she added as it was Elsie's turn to look a little taken aback, "I'm not one of these who refuse to acknowledge that servants have their own lives too. More so than we do, often."

"I know; you've already lost me a promising housemaid," Elsie reminded her, but not unkindly.

They were quiet for a few moments watching a flurry of ballgowns and dress suits dance past them.

"At least I'm not the only wallflower tonight." 

Elsie followed Sybil's gaze; finding Lady Mary at the opposite side of the room standing next to her Aunt Rosamond but evidently not paying her the slightest bit of attention. The girl was watching the dancing couples with a sadness in her face, it was evident even from quite a distance. It was quite apparent to both of them where her thoughts were occupied. Feeling as if she were intruding upon a private moment, Elsie was relieved when Sybil spoke next.

"Forgive me, Mrs Hughes, I wonder if you could assist me with changing my shoes. I seem to have chosen rather an uncomfortable pair."

The formality of the request and the sudden seriousness in her voice told Elsie that she was not in the mood for being wound up further about her unwise choice of footwear- more that there was something she wanted to discuss away from the noisy ballroom. She nodded her head gracefully and followed Sybil away from the edge of the dancefloor. As the girl's eyes swept over her sister for a final time, Elsie thought for a second that she perceived a note of anguish in her face. She followed Lady Sybil at a short distance through the crowds of guests.

"Sybil dear..."

To their left Lady Grantham was gesturing for her youngest daughter to join her where she sat. Beside her stood a very tall and gangling young man in an extravagant dinner suit that did not quite fit his narrow frame.

"Mama," the note of pleading in Sybil's voice was evident, "I'm just going to change my shoes, I'll be down soon."

Elsie had to quicken her pace considerably; despite the hindrance her shoes caused her, Sybil all but fled from the ballroom after that. Thankfully, she waited for her outside the door and they were able to resume their walk together at a much more friendly pace.

"So how is the esteemed Mr Strallan?" Elsie asked, referring not to the groom but to his cousin, "I presume that was him?" referring to the gangling youth.

Sybil nodded fervently, a look of exasperated discontent on her face.

"Spectacularly rich, very dull," she informed her bluntly, "And a lot skinnier than I am; we'd look ridiculous together. Granny's suddenly opposed to it now that she's had a look at him. No matter what she said about Cousin Matthew being too middle-class she liked him in the end because he was quite charming in a particular light. I always said she was a romantic at heart."

In spite of the oddity of the latter statement, Elsie was pleased to see that the vague humour of the situation was not lost on her, thank heaven, if her tone was anything to go by. It was, Elsie thought, possible that the girl was thinking exactly the same as she was: thank God, for once, for Lady Violet.

"Anyway," Sybil continued with a sigh as they began to ascend the stairs, "Granny's disapproval only makes Mama all the more determined."

It was always going to come to this, Elsie thought bitterly, right from when the childish Lady Sybil had discussed the pros and cons of matrimony with her she'd known that the child would marry whichever suitor was backed by the lady who won the squabble.

"I wish I could help in some way, my Lady," Elsie told her earnestly, "If there's anything I could say to either of them..."

"Bless you for trying, Mrs Hughes," Sybil told her, "But-..."

"I know," Elsie assured gently her as they turned a corner, noting the awkward way her young companion had left her sentence hanging, "I'm only a servant, they would never listen to me." 

Sybil's continued silence as they reached her room acted to confirm the truth of what she'd said. She sat down at the dressing table, gratefully kicking off the monstrous contraptions she'd had on her feet.

"Can't Mrs Crawley intercede on your behalf?" Elsie asked, emerging from the wardrobe with a much more suitable pair, and a ray of hope.

Sybil gave it some thought.

"I suppose we could give it a try," she conceded, putting on the new pair, "But then there's always the risk that her defending me would make Granny stop, just to be contrary. And, however unfair it is, at the end of the day Granny's influence is far greater than hers. Oh, that's much better, thank you." 

Her feet restored to relative comfort she stood up again.

"I suppose your best policy," Elsie surmised as they headed back down the stairs, "Is to just keep your head down and hope she forgets she needs to marry you off."

Sybil nodded her head in agreement.

"We have no better plan," she admitted.

…**...**

It was well past midnight and they were still at it. Elsie briefly marvelled at the stamina of the upper classes to be able to dance for so long, but then reminded herself rather bitterly that they weren't all up at six that morning to check that all of the guest bedrooms were ready. True enough, numbers had gradually depleted as the evening wore on and now the room was only about half as full as it had been but it still didn't look as if she was going to get to bed any time soon. Aware that it would be best to get a jump on things if they wanted to be able to retire before dawn, Elsie wandered through to the library to collect empty glasses. She had about a tray-full when Mr Carson came in, an empty tray in his hand- presumably about to do the same thing. He opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it.

"I thought I'd save the footmen a job," she told him, "Has _anyone _had the chance to get some rest?" 

"The kitchen staff have," he replied, "And William keeps drifting off in the servants' hall."

She smiled sympathetically.

"Poor lad. He hates evenings like this."

"Well he'll have to get used to them," the butler grumbled, "Though I can see why. Where do they get all of the energy from?"

She laughed a little at the genuine wonderment on the butler's face.

"Lady Violet gone yet?" she asked collecting the last of the glasses and circumnavigating the large table with the laden tray.

"Here let me swap you," he took her load in exchange for his empty tray, "Yes, I had Mr Branson drive her back just now."

"And Mrs Crawley?"

"Surprisingly, no," Charles cleared his throat as they headed towards the door, "She seems rather... er, taken with dancing with his Lordship." 

Elsie laughed, remembering the performance she had witnessed earlier that night. She saw Charles purse his lips, torn between sternness and his own amusement.

"That woman never fails to surprise me," he admitted.

Elsie almost hooted with laughter again; she was at that stage of tiredness when things that are only moderately funny seem hilarious.

"There'll be a few nursing sore heads tomorrow," she remarked, "And I don't just mean us."

"Keeping our eyes open will be our problem," he remarked as they began to descend the stairs, "Ah, there you are William," he addressed the boy very pointedly as they met him on the stairs.

Elsie noted his bleary eyes and felt a pang of sympathy for him.

"Be so good as to take these downstairs for me," Charles instructed, handing him the tray of glasses.

Not wanting to over burden him, Elsie kept hold of hers and allowed him to depart back to the basement. They proceeded down the corridor back towards the ballroom, agreeing that they had best check on the proceedings. As they were crossing the entrance hall, Elsie caught a glimpse of a light blue frock out of the corner of her eye. Turning her head she saw that her first thoughts had been correct: she had seen that dress earlier that morning because she had helped the girl to put it on. What on earth was Lady Sybil doing down here, heading towards the front door? Why wasn't she in the party with everyone else? She waited a few seconds until she saw her turn a corner.

"You go on without me," she told Charles, unable to provide herself with a reasonable explanation to her questions.

"Are you alright?" he asked frowning.

She nodded vaguely, wandering away and leaving him standing in the corridor. Slipping through the glass doors, she followed the sound of flat shoes slapping a little on the wooden floor. Yes, she was heading for the front door. What in the name of heaven...?

The sounds of footsteps stopped so she came to a halt too, lingering a little way behind a half open door. Glancing around it a little, she saw Lady Sybil- looking around furtively. Then she heard the sound of the front door opening. She knew exactly who it would be, there was no need to look.

"Tom!"

The relief and gladness in Sybil's voice was so touching it broke Elsie's resolve to burst in with another contrived excuse. Instead she bit her lip, hovering behind the door, feeling awkward at the length of the silence that followed. She got the feeling that- whatever was going on round the corner- Lady Sybil wasn't exactly "keeping her head down". She _would_ insist on making her own situation more precarious than it already was, she thought in exasperation. It was an odd kind of terrified relief that struck when she heard the sound of footsteps ahead of her. There was very little chance that the young couple knew they were about to be intruded upon. When, a few seconds later, still no words followed, Elsie was getting worried; the footsteps were much louder. Then she saw the one single person who's appearance could have convinced her that this was in fact a nightmare: Miss O'Brien. And in that second, she knew decisive action was in order, and could think of nothing more constructive to do than fling her empty drinks tray at the floor with an almighty crash, slamming the door shut as she did so.

It was clear by the look of astonishment on the lady's maid's face that she had seen exactly what the housekeeper had done, but from her startled silence she could not quite believe her eyes. Hopefully, that was all she had seen. Miss O'Brien stared at Elsie for a few second, before beginning in a faltering voice:

"Mr... Mr Carson said you'd be down 'ere. He asked me to fetch you. 'Er Ladyship says she can't find Lady Sybil."

No wonder, Elsie thought.

"Well has her room been checked?" she enquired, "She might have got tired and gone to bed?" 

Miss O'Brien did not know.

"Well then we must go and check," she told her, leading her safely away from the closed door.

She bent as gracefully as she could manage to pick up her tray, hoping it would not prompt Miss O'Brien to question her seemingly bizarre actions. She really would have to have a word with Mr Branson, she thought to herself wearily. He might not prove as averse to having sense talked into him.

**Please tell me what you think!**


	9. Chapter 9

"I'll be off, then," she announced to the servants' hall at large, picking up her hat and gloves, making it clear that she was about to depart for the village.

"You needn't," Mr Carson reminded her, "There's nothing we need urgently."

"It's my day off," she repeated for at least the third time, "The outing will do me good. I could do with the air."

"It looks like rain, Mrs Hughes," Anna told her from the other side of the table.

Although she shrugged her shoulders dismissively at the news; all the better for her private scheme to work. However, the butler pursued his initial course.

"There," he told her, satisfied with the ammunition Anna had provided him with in encouraging her to stay, "You'll get drenched and catch a chill and I don't want you in bed all of next week."

She hoped none of the others heard that the way she did, and a second later mentally slapped herself in the face for being so easily distracted, wrinkling her nose a little. Undeterred, she made to leave.

"Has no one heard of an umbrella?" she asked, shaking her head at her assembled colleagues.

Any time now, she thought, any time now would be excellent. And by some almighty miracle; something that she'd premeditated with a high chance of going wrong didn't.

"Mr Branson," Charles called as the chauffeur entered the room, with an air of someone who had just struck a happy compromise, "You will drive Mrs Hughes to the village and back."

At the edge of her conscious stream of thought, and possibly foolishly, she was flattered by the way the butler did not offer the young man a choice. He then turned to her and looked at her sternly, indicating to her that she was not to be given a choice either. Determined to keep up the air of coincidence she tried to seem to give in reluctantly.

"Well, if you _insist_, Mr Carson," she conceded, "And as long as we are no trouble to Mr Branson?"

Why on earth she'd just given her scheme a direct opportunity to backfire on her just before the point of success, she did not know and cursed herself for it. Fortunately though, the young man smiled obligingly at her.

"Certainly not, Mrs Hughes."

He put his hat back on and lead the way towards the back door. Following him, Elsie marvelled to herself at how- however much Thomas and O'Brien liked to think they ran the place- she knew the butler well enough to second guess his response, and could therefore twist him around her little finger.

…**...**

Once settled in the car, in the passenger seat beside the driver's, however, she found it was difficult to bring up the topic she intended to without seeming to blurt it out. Henceforth, she remained silent most of the way down the house's drive. She shuffled awkwardly, aware that it would have to be done sooner rather than later: while it took half and hour to walk to the village it was about half that time in a motor car. Fortunately, however, seeing her movement, Mr Branson assumed that the silence was making her awkward and struck up conversation.

"It was very thoughtful of Mr Carson to insist I took you," he remarked pleasantly; pleasantly enough for her not to box the boy's ears at his next remark, "He must think very highly of you."

She cast her eyes warily over him, wondering if Lady Sybil had been gossiping. His manner seemed innocuous enough, though, and on reflection Sybil probably had more important things to talk to him about. This thought enforced the necessity of getting on with the conversation they needed to have.

"Mr Carson worries about me too much," she informed him flatly, "He thinks all women are delicate creatures."

Mr Branson gave her an amused glance.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, ma'am," he told her, "To me it seems as if he treats you as his equal and I don't think he'd do that with a silly woman."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Are silly and delicate the same thing?" she asked, allowing herself to be briefly side-tracked.

"You are neither of them," he pointed out after a moment's thought, not taking his eyes off the road. His manner was almost charming, she thought, "You seem to me to be one of these strong, level-headed women-..."

"Me and Lady Sybil?" she challenged him, taking advantage of his complimentary tone.

It was effective; the young man was quiet for a few seconds, probably, she thought, considering the most diplomatic response to give.

"And Lady Sybil," he acknowledged finally.

She thought it would be up to her to press the conversation further, but he spoke again. They had reached the main road now.

"Mrs Hughes, both Lady Sybil and I are very grateful to you. You've been a wonderful help to us."

A servant through and through, Elsie was made mildly uncomfortable by the expression of sincere gratitude.

"I've been more wonderful than wise, perhaps," she dead-panned. Thankfully, he seemed to have some sense of humour.

"Possibly," he agreed, "But we're still grateful."

They continued for a few moments, Elsie uncertain of what to say next. The subject had been broached but she had not as yet really said what she meant to.

"Mr Branson," she tried again, "I'm not sure if I'm expressing myself very clearly. I... I have to say that I am rather worried about the way things are progressing between Lady Sybil and yourself. I thought at first that this might be a brief flirtation, but increasingly that seems not to be the case. You cannot deny that you have- more than once- come very close to being discovered by someone who would certainly not have been as sympathetic as I have."

"We haven't, thanks to you," he pointed out.

She frowned, determined not to let his flattery push her off her course.

"Mr Branson, I know you and Lady Sybil are happy together," she tried to sound kind, "But there is more than one kind of happiness. I know," she rolled her eyes a little, "You'll tell me that you'll be happy in the most important way as long as you're together and I know you appreciate that. But I'm not sure Sybil does. The girl has never known anything but the life of the upper classes, she can have no conception of what it means to be poor, and I'm not sure if either of you realise _that_. And that could be the ruin of your happiness in the end."

The chauffeur did not say anything in reply; she hoped she had not appeared too much of an antagonist, so she added:

"Of course I think this whole business of her supposedly getting married is ridiculous. Apart from anything else, she's far too young-..."

"She's not too young to know she's in love." The statement was made with a definite bluntness that caused her to look at him in surprise, him having been so polite previously, "Forgive me for saying this, Mrs Hughes, but sometimes I think you forget she's not six years old any more."

That was not what she was expecting in reply, quite to opposite in fact. She frowned, trying to work out what the boy could possibly mean by it.

"As I understood it, the problem is that she's _not_ in love," she told him slowly, "In fact she's told me that she thinks none too well of Mr Strallan."

"Mr Strallan?"

Were her eyes deceiving her or had the chauffeur's ears just turned the most phenomenal shade of red?

"Yes," she replied, even more slowly, "Why? Who did you think I was talking about?"

He answered in with uncomfortable silence that followed. The realisation hit her with such force that she was grateful that she had not been driving the car for she would have surely driven it clean off the road.

"You've asked her to marry you! And you didn't think it would have been a good idea to tell me this before?"

It came out a lot louder than she'd meant it to, and Branson jumped ever so slightly. Such was the expression on her face that he seemed almost frightened into being apologetic.

"I assumed she'd already told you!" he told her, clutching the steering wheel rather tightly, "I assumed she'd told you everything."

"So did I, Mr Branson," she assured him, "By God, so did I."

This, she supposed, rather changed things. She wondered which one of them to strangle first.


	10. Chapter 10

She found Lady Sybil, as she had thought she would, in the small drawing room off the library- head bent over a book. Thankfully no one else was there- she was rather eager that Lady Grantham did not overhear this particular conversation. As the door clicked shut the girl raised her head, smiling at first when she saw who her visitor was. But, when she caught a glimpse of the expression on Elsie's face, the smile slid away; leaving behind a look of great trepidation as Elsie towered- hands on her hips- over where she sat.

Having been rehearsing what she was going to say for about a week now, Elsie was moderately disconcerted that she was almost put off by the way the girl anxiously chewed her lip, waiting for whatever the housekeeper had to say to her. Evidently frightened, Sybil looked so young and Elsie momentarily reviewed whether or not she needed to be as stern as she had intended to be. But this matter- if any- was one that required sternness; she stirred herself to continue as she had planned.

"You said you would _marry _him?"

She sighed as she said it, her own incredulity with the pair, she realised, was making her rather weary. As for Lady Sybil; the child looked alarmed: whatever she had been expecting to be berated for, this apparently wasn't it. Her mouth fell open a little, evidently in wonderment.

"Mr Branson told me himself," Elsie supplied, assuming that Sybil was wondering how on earth she had managed to find out, "He assumed that I would already know," she informed her pointedly hoping to convey both that Branson was not really to blame, and her indignation that she had not been told about it by Sybil instead.

The girl was still looking shocked, evidently still unwilling to believe that the conversation that was apparently about to happen was really going to. Elsie sighed, taking the seat opposite her at the table: deciding that as said conversation was going to take place, she might as well charge headlong into it.

"I think you might possibly have gone a little too far there," she pointed out, only making half an effort to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

Sybil obviously heard it, and coloured violently. Her eyes flashed quite alarmingly and she seemed to stir herself for a retort, but Elsie beat her to it.

"You might have told me," she added sharply, deciding to play being offended for all it was worth.

However, Sybil did not swallow it.

"Well what was I supposed to do, when I knew you'd react like this?" she wanted to know, "Goodness knows, I wish I could have told_ someone_!"

Though their conversation was vehement, it was also quietly undertaken; both aware that things could go from bad to worse if someone happened to come into the library and overhear them. Had the situation not been so serious, it would have been quite comical really.

"And didn't it occur to you that there might be a good reason that I'm reacting like this?" Elsie pressed on in spite of the heavy scowl she was earning herself, "Have you ever realised that the most spur of the moment thing that you have done in your entire life is wear a pair of trousers?"

"And what's my alternative?" Sybil retorted furiously, "Answer me that. Let Mama and Granny pick some one out for me?"

"Your mother and grandmother know what's best for you," Elsie told her hastily, by "you" meaning "the family", "They will make sure you are comfortably settled."

"With Mr Strallan?" came the sceptical reply in little more than a hiss, "Really, Mrs Hughes, here was I thinking you understood!"

"I do," Elsie insisted, well aware that she was contradicting herself ferociously, "But I also understand what is possible. And that you running away with Mr Branson is definitely not. Just because you don't do that doesn't mean you'll automatically be thrown at Mr Strallan."

"What, so I'm to stay here and grow into a bitter and twisted spinster," Sybil shot back at her, "Who can't stand to see anyone else happy because she let her own chance go?"

She might as fell have taken off her shoe and flung it squarely into Elsie's face. What the words implied almost physically stung, she could not help but let out the tinniest gasp at their impact. Even Sybil looked as if she knew that she really had gone too far, and looked guiltily at the table. They were quiet for a painful interval, Elsie feeling humiliated and Sybil feeling unnecessarily cruel.

"It may seem as if," Elsie finally worked up the nerve and began carefully, "I am saying all of this to purely to ruin your happiness. I'm-..."

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes," Sybil interrupted her, "I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it, I was just angry."

Though she could not deny that she was hurt by the remark, Elsie could see that she was genuinely sorry. She closed her eyes for a second, hoping that when she opened them again everything might have miraculously returned to normal. She was tired of fighting this battle against someone whose side she was supposed to be on. Letting out a sigh, she wondered what on earth she could possibly say. Now she had not the vaguest inclination as to what the right course of action would be.

In the end, she concluded, it wasn't her own life to settle. Sybil was right, she had most certainly had her shot.

"I don't know what to say to you any more," she confessed, "You really don't seem to care about the trouble you could get in, and," with the merest fraction of a smile, "I suppose I rather admire that. I might even envy it a little. And," she conceded, noting the look of near disbelief on Sybil's face now, "When push comes to shove, I doubt I'm strong enough to restrain you. And as seen as you're stubborn as a mule, no doubt it would."

Her conclusion was a little rueful, but she could not help but smile a little at the look of disbelief on Sybil's face, before the girl stood up and left the room, almost in a daze

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	11. Chapter 11

**Right, deviation from the plot: we're back to Little Sybil. Not for some clever literary reason, but simply because I felt like some fluff amid all the angst. I hope you enjoy it.**

"Mrs Hughes, can we go and ask Mrs Patmore for some crusts?"

Elsie frowned down at the child standing there in her neat little coat, hat and gloves; as she negotiated herself into her own rather shabbier set. It was an odd request, even by Sybil's standards.

"Haven't you had any breakfast?"

Sybil laughed hysterically, seeming to think that the housekeeper was joking.

"We need to feed the ducks," the child instructed her, as if it were a compulsory requirement of visiting the village.

Her obvious conviction was very endearing, so, once she had her gloves on, Elsie reached a hand out for Sybil's.

"Come on, then," she told her, "Let's go and see if she can spare us any."

All in all, Elsie thought as they proceeded down the house's drive- a paper bag of crusts clutched tightly in Sybil's other hand- there were worse things to do with her day off. One of them was the stack of paperwork she'd been intending to wade her way through until her Ladyship had called upon her that morning.

"I know it's a dreadful thing to ask of you on your day off, Mrs Hughes," Lady Grantham had said, "But Ellen's taken ill and Sybil says she won't go to Ripon with me and her sisters. Could you take care of her for the day?"

In truth, Elsie did not mind one bit. She had to walk a little more slowly to the village so Sybil could keep up, but it was a nice enough day and the child's lively chattering about the buildings and plants they passed on the way was certainly enough to keep her amused.

"Didn't you want to go to Ripon with your Mama and sisters?" Elsie asked, as they reached the main road.

Sybil shook her head fervently. Elsie smiled at the little glower that had appeared.

"Why not?" she asked gently.

"Because they only talk about frocks," was the reason.

Fair enough, Elsie supposed.

"And men."

She was hard pressed not to laugh out loud at that, but innocent little Sybil couldn't possibly know why that was funny, so she didn't. Still, she had thought Lady Grantham might be less severe than her mother-in-law when it came to this attitude of treating marriage like a vocation. Instead she allowed herself a small smile, before asking;

"What would you rather talk about instead?"

Sybil seemed to realise that this was an invitation for her to choose them a topic of conversation.

"I don't know," she concluded after a moment's contemplation, "Mama says it's polite to let other people choose what you talk about."

Elsie assumed that her Ladyship had not been referring to servants in this instance, but there was something improperly wonderful in the fact that this intelligent child had not made this distinction.

"Do you always feed the ducks when you go to the village?" she asked with some curiosity.

Lady Sybil shook her head.

"Not at Christmas time," she replied, "They go away at Christmas time," she informed her wisely, but then seemed to find something amiss in this. "Why _do_ they go away at Christmas time, Mrs Hughes?"

"Because they want to live somewhere warmer, I suppose."

"Oh yes. They wouldn't want to have to sit in the cold on Christmas Day."

There was something in the child's notions of ducks actively observing the festive season that made her smile irrepressibly.

"No one does," she observed, rather than choosing to correct her and telling her that the ducks probably couldn't keep track of dates.

Another figure on the road was approaching them, headed in the opposite direction. Elsie thought she had recognised their passer-by and as Charles Carson drew nearer he raised his hat to each of them in turn. Lady Sybil smiled at the approach of someone else that she knew.

"Hello, Mr Carson," she chirped happily, "Mrs Hughes was telling me about what ducks do at Christmas time."

Elsie saw the butler raise his eyebrows at her slightly, but thankfully he did not press for an explanation.

"Why were you at the village?" she asked the butler, "I could have easily run an errand for you if you'd needed me to. It's my day off, after all."

"Thank you," he inclined his head, "But it was polish that needed fetching, and fetching quickly. We couldn't have had the silver looking shabby for Lady Sybil dining at the table, could we?"

Lady Sybil giggled happily at the thought. The children usually ate with their parents when the nursemaid was too ill to see them. Heavens, Elsie thought, I'll probably have to make sure she's neat enough later on...

"Would you ladies care to be escorted... wherever you are going?"

"Don't you have silver to polish?" she asked.

"That can wait," he assured them.

Elsie glanced at Sybil, leaving the decision to her.

"Yes, thank you, Mr Carson," she decided, "You are a gentleman."

Over the child's head, Elsie and Charles exchanged and amused glance. Lady Sybil extended her other hand to Charles, who relieved her of her bag of bread, before taking hold of the small gloved hand; and the three of them proceeded towards the duck pond.

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	12. Chapter 12

**I'm very sorry it's taken me a hundred years. I've been busy damaging works of literature beyond recognition by injecting pure doses of Downton into them. This one is set after Branson bring Sybil back from the disastrous count at Ripon. **

Elsie had not quite got back to going down to the servants' quarters after seeing that Mr Crawley's sandwiches were laid out when she passed Anna- who was on her way up the back stairs. She carried a glass of brandy in her hand. Surely, Elsie hadn't had Anna down for a drinker.

"Anna? Where on earth do you think you're going with that?"

"It's for Lady Sybil," Anna told her, "Her Ladyship said she thought it might do her some good. Calm her down a bit. She told me not to let his Lordship see me."

His Lordship, then, was still what could be called "fairly cross" with his youngest daughter.

"Give it here," Elsie told her, "There'll be fewer awkward questions if he sees me with it than you. I hope."

Anna handed her the glass.

"Would it be alright if I went up to bed now?" she asked.

"I think it would. In fact, yes, go on, away with you. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mrs Hughes."

Turning around, Elsie made her way back up the servants' stairs to the floor where the girls' bedrooms were.

She found Lady Sybil sitting up in bed; the picture of an invalid who was much less concerned about her situation than everyone else was. Her Ladyship had gone by now- no doubt to lie down herself- but Lady Edith was still perched, rather haughtily, Elsie thought, in an armchair at her sister's bedside. Elsie crossed the room and handed Lady Sybil the glass.

"From your mother, m'Lady," she told her by way of explanation.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

"Will there be anything else m'Lady?"

"Could you put that coat in the wardrobe please?"

Nodding, Elsie picked the coat up from the end of the bed and went to find a hanger, though why it hadn't been done by whoever was up here before she didn't know.

"Edith, don't you want to get to bed yourself now?" Sybil asked, pointedly. Probably too pointedly.

Though Lady Edith did stand up to leave, it was not without some disgruntlement. But then most things that Elsie saw Lady Edith do, she did with a certain amount of reluctance.

"What you two ever find to talk about is what puzzles me," she announced to them both, "Sybil, I wouldn't have thought that you'd take that great an interest in the dusting. Though perhaps I was wrong."

From the wardrobe Elsie could not see the look on Sybil's face; but from the way Lady Edith turned to go a second later, she could only assume that her little sister was looking daggers at her. She resolved to mind her own business for the moment and not take the remark too personally, hanging up the coat and shutting the door.

"Ignore Edith," Lady Sybil told her pointedly, "She hasn't any sensitivity at all. I'm sure to her your entire life revolves around dusting."

Elsie snorted; sometimes it didn't feel as if that was too far from the truth. Lady Sybil was certainly looking worn down, she thought; despite Mrs Crawley's best efforts there was still a rather ungainly mark in the corner of her forehead.

"My life's perhaps not as dramatic as it might be," she conceded, not quite nodding to the cut but Sybil seemed to catch her drift. She smiled wryly at her bedspread.

"I don't suppose you really envy me my dramatic lifestyle at the moment, do you?" she asked.

"Well, m'Lady," Elsie considered how to make the honest answer sound less frank, "My forehead is intact," then, hesitantly, "You should be more careful, though. Next time."

Her words of caution, as she might have predicted, were met with comparatively deaf ears. But were certainly not unappreciated.

"At least you concede that there'll be a next time!" Sybil seemed somewhat heartened by this, "I do wish Papa would."

Though she _did _concede that there probably would be a next time, she rather wished that there wouldn't; especially if his Lordship had reacted as he had been reported to.

"Perhaps it would be best, m'Lady, if you didn't actually attend these meetings. You'd find it a lot less painful if you expressed your concern by post."

"You know that's almost exactly what Mrs Crawley said," Sybil told her, surveying her thoughtfully, then joking; "You're not both in cahoots to keep me under control, are you?"

"We ought to be. Then there'd be a chance that you might listen to one of us."

Sybil laughed at the expression on the housekeeper's face.

"Really, Mrs Hughes. You both worry about me far too much."

Elsie continued to frown; she could certainly call that last statement into question.

"It's the atmosphere at the meetings that makes it so exciting!"

"Oh, how I do hate that word!" Elsie lamented to herself, "All it does, one way or another, is cause trouble!"

Lady Sybil was looking at her as if she was being rather ridiculous, but her considerable few more years of experience kept her sure of her convictions.

"You think you're so wise," she told her, not unkindly, but very much hoping she would listen to this if nothing else, "I suppose everyone does at your age. But you've a lot to learn yet. It wouldn't kill you to listen to reason every once in a while."

As Lady Sybil was looking tired- no matter how much she insisted that she wasn't- Elsie made her way to the door.

"I do appreciate you trying to talk sense into me, Mrs Hughes," she told her, "Really I do. I value your concern. I think Granny's rather given me up as a lost cause now; I expect she's just waiting for me to be arrested."

Elsie surveyed her levelly.

"For heaven's sake, don't get arrested," she instructed her flatly, "Or I'll have t put my foot down."

"Goodnight, Mrs Hughes."

She gave and exasperated sigh as Lady Sybil pulled the covers up to her chin.

"Goodnight, m'Lady."

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	13. Chapter 13

**Another reappearance for Little Sybil.**

There was a small tap at the door of her sitting room. Elsie got up, thinking that it was a bit early to be receiving any visitors, and opened the door. At first she thought no one was standing there. Then she looked down to about waist height, and saw a rather terrified-looking Lady Sybil standing there. It looked very much as if she'd dressed herself from the way that almost every item of clothing she had on seemed to be terribly mismatched and on at a slightly skewed angle. Knowing that it would be best to hold this conversation- whatever it transpired to be about- inside, she got out of the way and let Sybil make her way hesitantly into the sitting room. She was sure that Sybil would usually still be fast asleep at this time in the morning; something must have been badly wrong to cause her to come and seek her out at this time.

Though Sybil had grown in the past year, she was not quite big enough to hoist herself onto the tall table yet, and Elsie bent down to lift her up, pulling the chair out from her desk and sitting down next to her.

"What's the matter, my Lady?" she asked kindly.

Sybil's lip trembled a little bit.

"I'm in trouble," she confided in the housekeeper, with the utmost solemnity.

Such was the exaggerated yet perfectly earnest expression of seriousness on her face that Elsie had to bite back the urge to laugh. One would have thought the child had somehow brought about the end of the world.

"What kind of trouble?" Elsie pressed.

Sybil fixed her with wide eyes.

"I knocked over one of the vases at Grandmama's house yesterday. I walked straight into the stand it was on and it fell and smashed."

Recalling the particularly unattractive ornaments to which the child was referring, Elsie momentarily had the urge to congratulate her.

"Does your Grandmother know it was you?" Elsie asked.

Sybil shook her head.

"Mary said it was the cat."

Elsie nodded calmly.

"Well, it was only a little fib," Elsie tried to reassure her, thinking that she herself would have fibbed if faced by the angry Dowager Countess, "And it's not like it's the only vase in the world. She'll probably never find out that it was you and you won't get into any trouble."

Sybil shook her head again, a tear forming in her eye.

"There's a bump on my head," she told Elsie shakily, "Granny'll know it was me because there's a big bump there, where I walked into the stand. I only found it this morning."

"Let me have a look."

Elsie stood up and cautiously probed the child's hairline until she found the offending lump, swollen to the size of a small egg but practically invisible under the thick black hair.

"It must be very sore," she remarked, "I'll go and see Mr Carson and see if we can get you some ice from the ice house to put on it."

"No!" Sybil exclaimed, "He might tell Granny! I have to hide."

Elsie blinked.

"Hide?" she repeated, trying not to laugh.

Sybil nodded fervently.

"Don't do that," Elsie told her quickly, putting her hands on the side of the child's face, "With a lump like that, it will give you a splitting headache."

"You have to hide me in the store cupboard," Sybil told her with great conviction.

In her mind's eye, Elsie had a fleeting picture of the child lying terrified in the early hours of the morning, desperately hatching this absurd plot.

"Why in the store cupboard?" Elsie asked rather incredulously, "Unless," she joked, "This is just a plan to be left alone with a big bag on sugar."

The youngest daughter was rather notorious for having a raging sweet tooth. Apparently, though, the child did not see the funny side.

"You're the only one with a key," Sybil told her, "Everyone knows that."

At this, Elsie did laugh; wondering how on earth her "discussions" with Mrs Patmore had possibly come to the ears of his Lordship's children. Sybil, however, was still looking mournful.

"You know, hiding's never a good thing," Elsie told her carefully, "If you do something silly, if you have an accident that you don't want anyone to know about, it only gets worse if you hide away from it. Your Grandmother doesn't know it was you, and I think- if we keep you in a nice big hat for the next few days- she'll never know. And if she does find out, just tell her you're sorry and that you'll watch where you're going next time. She can't ask for any more than that."

Sybil seemed to evaluate what she had said.

"Do you get into trouble a lot?" she finally wanted to know.

"Oh, all the time," Elsie assured her.

"Who with?"

"Oh, it's usually Mr Carson. Or your Mama, and sometimes it's Mrs Patmore, or even," she lowered her voice to a mysterious whisper, "Miss O'Brien."

Sybil looked freshly horrified by the very prospect.

"And you don't hide from them?" her eyes seemed to widen in new-found respect for the housekeeper.

"Oh, goodness, no! There would be no point. Mr Carson knows me so well that he'd know where I'd hide, your Mama could have the whole house looking for me, Mrs Patmore could starve me out, and I've no doubt that Miss O'Brien is some kind of blood hound when it comes to finding people."

"So what do they do to you?" Sybil wanted to know.

"Generally, they chase me with a sweeping brush," Elsie told her cheerfully, "Come on. Do you want some ice for that head of yours?"

Sybil giggled at this last statement, and jumped off the table to follow Elsie out of the room.

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